Garden Time

I miss a garden. Back when I was young my family always had a garden, and I miss the simple beauty of the process. I remember way back an old white-headed black man would show up in the spring driving a wagon pulled by his mule, the old "Florence Wagon Works" type but with old slick car tires and wheels in place of the old spoke wheels. The thing was silent except for the sound of the mules' hoofs. He'd hook the plow harness on the mule after he detached him from the wagon harness. He carried the one row braking plow and tools in the back of the wagon and they, the mule and man would brake our garden for not much money. When he was finished he'd load the wagon and move on to the next garden further down. "Brake," in this case, means to turn the soil over with a braking plow. This would happen a month or more from planting time so the soil could lay out and the grass that is turned under could die from lack of sunshine. It was the beginning of the process that cycled through our lives every year. After about 40 years of gardening hiatus, were going to go for it and raise a garden. I think it a part of my simplification process, another one of those "long time coming things," hopefully another step toward making peace with my conscious. I wish I could remember the old man's name, and his mule's name for that matter, he was one of the last holdouts of that era and I'm glad I have the memory. I'll keep you updated. AP